


The One In Which Romance is Danced Around For Sweeps, Because They're Both Pansies: A Novel

by Newtavore



Category: Homestuck
Genre: First Time Topping, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-12
Updated: 2014-12-12
Packaged: 2018-03-01 05:34:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2761490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Newtavore/pseuds/Newtavore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s narcissistic, you’re sure; he is your ancestor, he is you, in some ways. You share the same jagged horns, the same blood, the same curve of the jaw and arch of the nose, and it’s narcissistic to see his face and want to kiss him, to pin him to the [sparkling, thank you] deck and take him so hard he whimpers and screams your name loud enough for the entire afterlife to hear. It’s narcissistic, you think, to want to still his trembling hands with your own and have him take comfort in your presence, to be able to hold and kiss him whenever and wherever you want. It’s a bit narcissistic, but isn’t there a saying, you can’t help who you fall in love with?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One In Which Romance is Danced Around For Sweeps, Because They're Both Pansies: A Novel

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Gorgeous Art](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/87329) by DualEri. 



 

He’s… not quite what you were expecting, to be honest.

 

Your entire life, you’d heard tall tales of the grand Orphaner Dualscar’s epic adventures on the high seas; your ancestor, the kismesis of the notorious pirate Marquise Spinneret Mindfang and trusted advisor of Her Imperial Condescension herself, sailing from shore to shore in hunt of lusii to feed the monstrous Gl’bgolyb.

 

In reality, well… he’s a bit less than impressive.

 

Not to say he isn’t physically intimidating, of course, because he is- the massive spikes of his armor do nothing to dwarf his figure, and he stands at least a head taller than you, when he stands up straight- that is a rare occurrence, however.

 

Most of the time, he slouches as bad as fucking Captor, and that’s saying something. His posture is abysmal, as are his manners- he mumbles when he speaks, and refuses to look you in the eye. It’s sort of infuriating, because you were expecting a tall, imposing, commanding figure with a clear voice made to ring across the ship even during the worst of storms, and a presence that could not be refused. Instead, you get him as he is, a troll who walks around with his thumbs tucked in his belt loops, shoulders hunched, looking like the mere mention of social interaction is enough to give him a heart attack.

 

It’s sort of pitiful, really.

 

It’s like he’s forgotten how to interact with people, though you’re beginning to think he never knew how in the first place. He’s spent sweeps in the empty, ghostly dream bubble of his ship with nothing but the walls to talk to, but even before then, it was only him and his crew, you think. He does okay with small groups of people that he knows well, but the one time you dragged him to the main dream bubble…

 

He’d spent the entire time hiding behind you, as much as he could. You’ve no doubt the sudden rash of snickering and giggling from your former game-mates and dancestor had something to do with the way his horns and armor completely eclipsed your smaller frame, and how his little attempts at hiding were completely, utterly futile. He asks you who they are, why they’re staring, and you just pat one armor clad shoulder and roll your eyes, telling him to calm down before he gives himself a double death in the form of an aneurysm.

 

After that, you tend to avoid the main bubbles.

 

He’s much better around just you, anyways; if you can get him to tell you stories, about his hunts, about how life was like, then he’ll go on for nights, illustrating with hand gestures and expressive language, describing things in such detail you can almost see it painted across your inner eyelids when you close your eyes to sleep.

 

He teaches you the proper way to care for the ship [you’d had no experience with running it, just keeping it from breaking in half and sinking into the waves], the way to tie the ropes, the way to clean the deck [which, judging from his laughter, you think was just to make you do manual labour for shits and giggles], the way to sail from place to place in a fashion you’d never been able to manage before, with your shipwreck hive. He tells you about his life, about the truths and lies of Mindfang’s journal, about his regrets and his joys and everything in between, and though he clams up as soon as anyone else stumbles into your little bubble, and though his recalcitrance to actually interact with anyone else infuriates you sometimes, you think you slowly begin to fall in love with him.

 

It’s narcissistic, you’re sure; he is your ancestor, he is you, in some ways. You share the same jagged horns, the same blood, the same curve of the jaw and arch of the nose, and it’s narcissistic to see his face and want to kiss him, to pin him to the [sparkling, thank you] deck and take him so hard he whimpers and screams your name loud enough for the entire afterlife to hear. It’s narcissistic, you think, to want to still his trembling hands with your own and have him take comfort in your presence, to be able to hold and kiss him whenever and wherever you want. It’s a bit narcissistic, but isn’t there a saying, you can’t help who you fall in love with?

 

He’s talking to you right now, gesturing wildly, animated and proud, standing up straight for once as he regales you with a story of a lusus he brought down, larger than his ship was long, if you’d been paying attention correctly. As impressive as it is, and as gleeful you would be to listen to him at any other time, now you can only watch the way his lips move as he speaks, listen to the way his tone shifts, rising and falling in pitch like the gentle swell of ocean waves, and god, all you want to do is kiss him.

 

You have a habit of becoming attached to people after too short a time, a habit of clinging and holding and not letting go, even when they express discomfort. It’s what lost you Feferi, you think, and what kept anyone else from entering any of your quadrants; you don’t want to make the same mistakes with him. You might be stuck together, but you’re _stuck together;_ if you fuck up, you still have to live with him for the rest of eternity, however long that may be- because you refuse to leave him alone to stagnate again. Being alone is not good for Amporas; it hadn’t been good for Cronus, it hadn't been good for you, and though he’s supposed to be an adult, older and wiser and better equipped to handle the cruelties of the world, you know it hadn’t been good for him, either.

 

So you hold back, and you resist, and nights turn to weeks, weeks turn to… something else, you aren’t sure, time passes so strangely here that you lose track every few hours or so, but it’s been a long time, a very long time, and one night he just… seizes you by the cloak and drags you to him almost roughly, only to place the softest, most chaste little kiss on your lips, eyes wide as he looks down at you.

 

You don’t even think- you tangle your hands in his windblown, perpetually salt crusted hair and kiss him deep, teasing his mouth open with your tongue and coaxing him into a response. He’s just as eager as you, after a few shocked seconds, and he reciprocates quick and fast, almost sloppy.

 

It’s amusing to you, that this powerful, muscular troll, with teeth sharp enough to cut through steel and hands strong enough to snap bone with ease, bends so easily to your slightest touch. Your hand pushes against his chest, and he goes as you lead him, sliding down to the floor and letting you climb atop him. It’s easier for the both of you to get better angles, to kiss deeper and harder like this, with no one straining their necks because of the height difference. The fact that it pushes the two of you closer together, and imitates one of your most prevalent fantasies, has nothing to do with your decision, none whatsoever.

 

He moans into your mouth, a soft sound, soft and quiet and understated like the rest of him in the hilarious manner only he can manage, as covered in gold and armor as he is; understated and quiet, and overestimated, but never bested in combat. You’d seen him take down the memory of a beast much larger than any he’d ever told you stories about, face lined with determination, sweating with effort and snarling almost ferally; you’d never even seen a creature that large, yet he’d dispatched it without any assistance with just a harpoon gun and a sword, a feat you would have never believed, even if he had told you.

 

So strong, yet he bows to your will at the softest of touches, arching into your hands even as you press through layers of metal and cloth; you kiss him, and he responds, back and forth, his hands sliding up underneath your shirt to tease at your gills, your teeth nicking his lip in surprise. He licks the blood from his mouth and when you fumble for the catches in his armor, he squirms beneath you, his long legs wrapping around your hips with ease.

 

His armor falls away, thank god, and your hands ghost over the soft cotton of his shirt, sliding up underneath it in mirror image to what he’s managed with you. His gills are delicate, velvety, and part easily under your touch; the stimulation makes him groan, and his mouth latches onto your neck, tongue laving the sensory frills there.

 

“I-if you keep teasin’, I’m not gonna be responsible for what I do to you,” you gasp, tilting your head back, and he lets out something like a growl, something like a moan, and his hands grip the back of your neck, keeping your head still so he can lavish your throat with attention.

 

“Good,” he pants, chest heaving under your hands, skin slowly heating with need and exertion, “That’s the goal, for me anyways. That not what you’re wantin’?”

 

He looks up at you, suddenly unsure, like he can’t quite remember where to put his hands or what to do with his legs.

 

“‘Course that’s what I want. Wasn’t sure if that’s what you wanted, though…"

 

“Oh it is. Definitely. Definitely a thing I want.”

 

He stumbles over his words in a manner you usually only see when you’re around other people, flustered, cheeks flushing violet, and it’s so uncharacteristic of the way you’d grown up hearing about him, so unlike the stories you’d heard and the harsh, almost fearful way he acts towards other people, that you can’t help but feel another wave of pity for him, strong as the currents.

 

You lean down, and you kiss him hard, teeth and tongues clashing as you fondle his gills and he tugs you down further on top of him, your smaller body covering him like an ill fitted blanket. One hand goes to his thigh, hitching his leg up over your hip in a more comfortable position for the both of you, and you both gasp and groan in unison when your clothed bulges brush against each other.

 

“You- you sure you’re okay jumpin’ right in like this?” you ask, voice high and breathy; he laughs and drags you in for another kiss, silencing your awkward second guessing with his tongue.

 

“What do you mean, jumpin’ right in?” he says, almost a scoff, eyes rolling, “We’ve been dancin’ around this for half a lifetime, already.”

 

After that, everything sort of dissolves into heat and need. He’s warm, you’re warm, the light of the dream moons pouring down on your and heating your skin from the outside even as the need and desire heat you up from the inside. You’re almost dizzy with lust, and you touch and kiss him anywhere there’s bare skin- somehow, between then and now, Dualscar had lost his shirt and so had you, his mouth on your neck, yours on his horns, hands skimming over bared skin.

 

“I need you,” he gasps, tugging at your shoulders, his fingers brushing over decorative fins, “F-fuck I need you, it’s been so long-“

 

You forget, sometimes, that he’s been alone for hundreds of sweeps; you forget that you have too, sometimes. You think. It feels like it, anyways, and though you are not inexperienced, all of your experience had come from a kismessitude that had been terminated half an eternity ago, in your eyes.

You hesitate, and he whines, bucking his hips up into yours and drawing ragged, needy sounds from the both of you.

 

Vriska had always taken you, in the little quadrant fuckup you two had been. She’d pinned you down and taken you rough, and while you didn’t necessarily mind, you… have less experience than you probably would, in more gentle matters. Also, you’ve never actually stuck your bulge in someone else’s orifices before- it’s not that you’re really worried about how it’ll feel for you, Vriska seemed to enjoy it, after all, but  you're not sure how it’ll feel for Dualscar.

 

There had been moments where it’d been quite painful, after all. You don’t want to hurt him.

 

“Wait-“ you say, and he groans in frustration and want, broad hands pressing against your back, “Look, it’s been a while-“

 

“It’s fine, I can take it,” he says, cutting you off, his voice just as wrecked as yours, “Please, Eri, just hurry up an pail me already before I double die a old age, okay?”

 

He takes your chin in a hand and guides your lips together, kissing you softly even as he grinds up against you in a manner that’s undeniably lewd.

 

“I can take it. I’m almost twice your size, I doubt you’re packin’ enough to hurt me too bad, so can you just get on with it already?”

 

The tail end of the sentence devolves into an almost agonized groan, and he bucks up against you, his hands scratching down your back. He wants it far more than you want to deny him of it, and you can’t help but fall back against him, your own hands skimming across his chest, down to his pants.

 

That drags an eager noise from between his lips, and his hips arch up so you have an easier time shimmying his pants down them, the sharp curve of his hipbone pressing up against his skin, highlighted by muscle. He’s so powerful, so strong, so much bigger than you, and it’s brought to your attention with every motion and every roll of his hips, his bulge curling out of the unbuttoned mess of his pants to decorate his scarred, sunbleached skin with violet.

 

It’s so similar to your own color that you have to hide your face to keep yourself from coming far too early; it’s not your fault he’s so goddamn sexy you can hardly handle looking at him. You want to do so many things to him, so many terrible things, and it’s only once your hands hit his hips and he rocks up with a whine that you realize that nothing is stopping you.

 

Dualscar, your idol, your ancestor, the troll you’ve slowly fallen in love with over the course of god knows how long, the troll you grew up nearly worshipping, is laying beneath you covered in his own lubricant, begging for your touch. He wants you. He wants you so badly the lack of you is making him snarl, making him reach up and claw at the skin of your back and pull you against him just to give him something to rut against, his hips rolling desperately against you, and god, nothing is stopping you from pinning him down and taking him.

 

He’s yours.

 

You blink, and you pull back enough to see his face, to look at him. His eyes are glazed, his face flushed, lips contorted in a hiss at your failure to actually do anything, and he’s… he’s yours.

 

“Mine,” you say, wondrously, like you can’t believe it and you honestly can’t for a minute, not even when he arches against you and moans out an affirmation, nodding like he’s positive you’ll disappear if he doesn’t agree vehemently enough.

 

“Mine,” you repeat, and he says yours, yours, now fuck me in a voice that makes you shiver and shake and dip your hands low enough for his bulge to twine around, his entire body quivering in anticipation.

 

Neither of you have any patience. It’s been far too long, you’ve both been alone for far too long and even though nothing has even happened yet, you’re both shaking with desperation and need. This won’t last long and you know it, but you’ll consider it a miracle if you can continue past the initial penetration.

 

You shove his pants down lower, and he murmurs something filthy with connotations far too old for you to understand, dirty talk that’s been phased out of your more modern Alternian phrasebook. It still makes you shiver, his lips forming the sleepy consonants and slurred vowels of ancient Alternian, then, when you fist his bulge in your hand and stroke, the loose bubbly hums and tones of sea tongue.

 

Your lips ghost over his jaw, sucking marks into his skin, and your other hand dips lower, lower still till it meets the slick heat of his nook.

 

He gasps and moans and your name spills from his tongue like water, long and drawn out and deep enough to rattle your heart in your ribcage. He’s so much bigger than you, and when he wraps his hands around your waist and pulls you close, his fingers almost touch.

 

“Mine,” you growl, and he shudders, his hips arching into contact with your hand; you slip two fingers inside of him up to the second knuckle all at once, and he barks out a feral snarl of pleasure, claws digging into your sides.

 

He’s not tight, but not loose, fitting around your fingers perfectly and stretching easily as you slide a third into him. It’s astounding, how swiftly he adapts to the stretch; you’d never been as good at taking it, it had always hurt you. Maybe it’s because Vriska had always gone too fast, not giving you enough time to actually get wet or get accustomed to being stretched open, but you’d never seemed to get as much pleasure out of it as he is.

 

You’re glad he’s feeling good, at least.

 

Three fingers become four, more because you want to see if he can take it than because he needs it to be prepared for you, and then four fingers become none as you draw them away, your hand coated in violet. He growls, and you snarl back, teeth snapping at him as you shove down your pants just enough to free your bulge with shaking hands, the thing slapping your stomach hard, as if outraged at being kept away from the action for so long.

 

“Give it to me,” he says, tone just too prideful to be begging, but not quite commanding enough to be an order, “C’mon, boy, give it-“

 

You almost pull back, just to make him beg, but you’re both too fired up; you think if you wait any longer your bulge might just explode without you, and you at least want to get inside of him before coming prematurely all over yourself like an utter virgin.

 

It takes a lot of self restraint but you feed your bulge into him slowly, the length pushing in with ease. With every inch, his long, drawn out moan hitches, his legs wrapping around your waist and pulling you closer, pushing you deeper without pause.

 

“I need it-“ he breathes, head lolling back, his hands dropping to the deck to scratch at the weather worn wood underneath him, “I need-“

 

You both need, and you shush him, dipping your head to lap at his lips as you hilt yourself in his greedy nook. He kisses you sloppily, and you both press as close to each other as possible, nary a hair’s breadth between you.

 

“Fuck,” you whimper, mind blank, and it’s a monumental effort not to spill yourself right then and there, but Dualscar is practically sobbing underneath you, thighs trembling as he writhes and claws at your hips, your back, trying to get you to move. He needs this just as much as you do, this closeness, this attachment, and the thought of ending this too soon, of leaving him unsatisfied, makes your heart ache.

 

He clings to you with the same sort of needy desperation that you cling to him, and you both trade messy kisses and soft sounds of pleasure before you begin to move, your bulge twisting and rolling inside of him, slow and cautious.

 

Your hips stay pressed flush against his own, his legs wrapped around your waist, keeping you from thrusting in even if you want to- you don’t think you can handle that extra layer of sensation right now, and it’s not the sex you need, but the sheer closeness, the act of joining together and being inside one another, of being so close that your heartbeats become one.

 

His hips buck, and he makes his odd bubbling noise, almost a glub; his bulge presses against your nook and despite yourself, you stiffen up. He’s much larger than Vriska, and you’re sure that if he pushes into you, it’ll hurt far worse than anything she’d ever done.

 

“Let me,” he says, voice ragged with need, and you let out a whine but he just pulls you down for a kiss, his bulge rubbing over your nook, and god you don’t think you’ve ever been this slick or this willing to have anyone inside of you but you’re not sure you can take him. You’re dropping down your thighs and your bulge thrashes at the very thought but you don’t know if you can take him, and you whine, hiding your face in the crook of his neck as you rock against him.

 

“Maybe later, then,” he mumbles, and his bulge presses up against you, rubs against you, but it’s just friction, no penetration, and you gasp and whine and cry and keen, body trembling as you try to decide whether to buck back or keep pressing forward. He makes your decision for you, grasping you, holding you close, and you’re stimulated at both ends and so, so overwhelmed.

 

You cling to him, your bulge out of your control, thrashing and curling against the walls of his nook as you pant and gasp into the crook of his neck, tongue darting out to lap at his gills.

 

It doesn’t last long after that. Everything devolves to sensation, to feeling and sound and words just don’t work anymore. You can’t think, you can’t speak, you can just make noise and rock against him and hope to god he’s getting as much out to this as you are.

 

Apparently he is, because he comes first, a deep snarl leaving him as he grabs you and presses you to him, his legs tightening around your waist as he spills all over the deck of his ship.

 

“B-bucket-“ you whimper, and he growls something unintelligible and feral and clings to you, his nook fluttering around your bulge till you can’t hold back anymore. You come, and flood him with your color, with his color, your back bowed, body shaking as you fill him full of slurry.

 

Everything goes hazy, soft edged and wavering in a manner that would be alarming, if you weren’t a melted puddle of troll draped over your ancestor, loose limbed and rubber boned.

 

“I can’t believe you didn’t let me pull out,” you say, breathless, incredulous, and he laughs, cupping your face in his hands and bringing you in for a kiss.

 

“Didn’t want you to,” he says, and his voice is as soft and wavering as your vision, his lips warm and chapped and gentle against yours, and you push close, wrap your arms around him and press as close as you can, until you can hardly tell where his battle scarred, sun bleached skin ends and yours begins.

 

You spend god knows how long just breathing in the same air, your forehead pressed to his, your noses touching, lips centimeters away. It’s… peaceful. You think you could get used to this.

 

“I take it I didn’t fuck up completely, then?” you say, and though your tone is playful your hands tremble as you reach up, running your fingers through his messy hair. Your own, once artfully styled, is now a flop of loose curls, half obscuring your vision. He pushes it to the side with gentle fingers, and you let out a soft croon, leaning into the touch.

 

“No,” he murmurs, and he kisses you, soft and slow, and you feel content.

 

Contentedness is something you haven’t had much of an opportunity to feel. You think you could get used to it.

 


End file.
